


Prosody and Cons

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: How Novel [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Implied Sexual Content, Insecure Sherlock, Love Confessions, M/M, Mystery Stories, Romance, Sherlock writes poetry, Student Sherlock, Tipsy John, Unilock, Writer John, Writers Convention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-17 07:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20616965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: "Darling, what’s the best way to poison someone and not have it show up in the autopsy?""Do you only date me for my knowledge of criminology and chemistry?""Oh, definitely. Well, not only that — you’re a good kisser too."John is out of town, and in his absence, Sherlock feels unexpectedly anxious. He heads off to surprise his boyfriend, but perhaps he is the one in for a surprise.





	Prosody and Cons

Sherlock is sat on the sofa, perusing a book, when the text arrives.

_ Darling, what’s the best way to poison someone and not have it show up in the autopsy? _

Sherlock grins and drops his book onto his lap. His thumbs fly across the screen as he taps out his response.

_ Do you only date me for my knowledge of criminology and chemistry? _

John’s reply comes quickly, and Sherlock deduces that he is between events. He recalls that the authors’ dinner will take place in about thirty minutes, after the convention closes for the day.

_ Oh, definitely. Well, not only that — you’re a good kisser too _

Sherlock chuckles aloud.

_ Cheeky. To answer your question, there are various ways, actually. But it will depend on various factors: where your character lives, their finances, their motive, etc. _

_ Who says it’s for a character? ;) _

Sherlock snorts. Oh, John.

_ You know, if anyone sees these texts, they will be rather concerned. _

_ Hmm, good point. It’s for a fictional character, Mycroft, if you’re watching! _

_ (Mycroft, you’re a pompous arse.) Is it likely that there will be an autopsy done on this murdered character? Would it not be better to somehow orchestrate circumstances so the murder goes undetected? _

_ That could work to a point _

_ Oh? Why just to a point? _

_ Well, I suppose you could say it’s a cold case _

_ Do I get to see your updated draft now? I can work with that. _

_ NO _

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He has seen the initial draft of the novel, but that was months ago. Since then, John has revised the entire second half with the help of his editor, James Sholto. And to Sherlock’s intense consternation, he hasn’t been allowed to see it yet. John keeps insisting he wait for the galley to come out, so Sherlock has been forced to subsist on what he can deduce from the questions John asks him, or comments John makes. Even John’s creative writing students at the university seem to know more about the new book than Sherlock. Not by much, but nonetheless, Sherlock feels left out.

Certainly, Sherlock knows where John hides the draft — under layers of codenamed folders on his laptop — but he would rather not risk his relationship over something he _ will _eventually get to read. He still doesn’t enjoy this tedious exercise in patience, though.

_ Oh, very well. Perhaps next time, you stubborn man. _

_ You don’t mind :) _

The words send a wave of wistfulness through Sherlock. He misses John, sitting alone here. The writers conference is an exciting opportunity, the chance for John to network, attend panels and discussions, meet fans and other authors, and get to know new publishers. They’d both been delighted when John’s agent Mike had called John about it, but now, faced with another day and a half of being on his own, Sherlock cannot help but feel a bit melancholy and anxious.

He could use a cigarette. Or John.

_ I miss you_, he types, but hesitates to send it. Is it too telling? Will it make John uncomfortable?

But then he remembers that night shortly after Christmas, when John begged him to open up and trust him. He sends the text.

John’s response is, luckily, near-instantaneous and a relief.

_ I miss you too. Do you want to skype later? _

_ I do, yes. _

_ :)_

* * *

That evening, Sherlock leaps across the sofa when he hears the ping of the Skype alert. Grinning when he sees John’s name, he clicks the green button.

“Hey, sexy!”

Sherlock blinks as John appears on screen, waving and grinning like a loon.

“John, are you… drunk?” he asks.

“No!” John says immediately. Then, he seems to think twice. “Well, maybe a little.”

“I take it the dinner went well?”

“Oh, yeah,” he nods. “It was great. The cocktails were really good too.”

He launches into speech about the chats he’d had with a pair of up-and-coming mystery writers from America, then with an editor friend of Mike’s, and then with the fans during the public part of the convention earlier in the day.

“Sounds like a good day,” Sherlock observes with a soft smile.

John grins. “It was. This is so much fun.”

“I’m glad,” Sherlock murmurs.

“So how are you, sexy?” John asks then. Sherlock can tell he’s touching the screen, and absurdly wishes he could feel it through the distance between them.

“Fine,” Sherlock sighs. “Mrs. H brought up some biscuits earlier.”

“Nice of her. But I hope you ate some real food too.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sherlock retorts with a smile. “How many cocktails did you drink tonight?”

“Hey, they were really good!”

“As were Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits.”

John giggles, and Sherlock feels his own spirits uplifted by the sound. “So, I take it you had time to get some writing done earlier?”

“Ooh, yes,” John shifts in his seat, eyes widening with eagerness. “Your feedback was helpful, by the way.”

“I’m glad.”

“This book, Sherlock… I thought moving away from writing Sherrinford forever would be awful, you know? That change scared me, because I could always count on him. But now, with this new story, with Isabell, it’s… it’s so fun.”

Sherlock smiles. Isabell, John’s new protagonist, has practically been his boyfriend’s new crush of late. Not a day goes by that John doesn’t mention her.

“You know, if Isabell weren’t fictional,” Sherlock says with a chuckle, “I’d be jealous.”

“Oh, don’t be!” John exclaims, clearly petting the screen again, and Sherlock makes a mental note to get him tipsy more often, if only for the entertainment value. “You’re much better!”

“Am I?” Sherlock asks, pressing his lips together to fight his smirk. “How so?”

“You’re sexy,” John holds up a finger with each item in his list. (Yes, he is definitely still inebriated; he only calls Sherlock “sexy” after having at least two drinks.) “You’re a total genius, you’re pretty, you like my books, you write poetry…”

“I’m _ pretty_?” Sherlock is flabbergasted.

John ignores him, apparently on a different train of thought entirely now. “Have you written any more poetry lately?”

“Erm… no, actually.” Unlike for John, writing is a hobby for Sherlock. He sometimes goes weeks, or even months, between poems.

“You should. This convention is inspiring.”

“For you,” Sherlock points out. “I’m not there, remember?”

“Also,” John, exaggeratedly serious, holds up a finger as a warning to not be interrupted. Sherlock tries not to chuckle too obviously. “Why do your poems never rhyme? Poems are supposed to rhyme.”

“They don’t have to.”

“But they should! Classic poems rhyme! My writing students do it all the time. You should try it!”

“Are you challenging me to write a rhyming poem, John?”

“Yes!” John declares in a loud voice. “In ambic…” He frowns, concentrating. “Iambic, I mean. Pen… tatamameter. Yeah. It’s a sonnet. You should write a sonnet.”

“Am I supposed to know what those words mean?”

“You’re a poet! Yes,” John insists.

Sherlock laughs. “John, I’m a chemistry student. I don’t have the formal training you and your students have. I can hardly even be considered a real poet. What does iambic pen-whatever mean?”

“Look it up. Kind of hard to explain,” John says around a wide yawn. Sherlock glances at the clock and blinks in surprise.

“John, why are you still awake? It’s past midnight. Don’t you have to be awake early tomorrow?”

John peers at his watch and sighs. “Yeah. I guess I do. But I mean it about the sonnet, Sherlock!”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock smiles, charmed by John’s tipsy solemnity. “I never suggested otherwise.”

“Good,” John nods, seemingly satisfied. “I’m going to bed now. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock moves to end the call, but John flails his hands. 

“Wait,” he says. “What about a goodnight kiss?”

Sherlock feels heat flare to his cheeks. “John, we’re not face to face.”

John, ignoring him, blows a kiss at the screen, then watches Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock, thoroughly glad no one is around to witness this, copies him. The euphoric smile that appears on John’s face, though, makes his embarrassment worth it.

“Alright, off to bed with you,” Sherlock orders gently. “But drink a bit of water before you do, and have some coffee and something to eat in the morning.”

“Okay,” John inclines his head. “You’re probably right. But don’t forget that poem, yeah?”

“I’ll let you read it when I finish,” Sherlock murmurs. He neglects to point out that John’s now repeating himself. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

They hang up, and Sherlock retreats into the bedroom after turning off his laptop. He changes into pyjamas and crawls under the covers, missing the warmth John emanates when they spend the night together. He doesn’t plan on sleeping much, but he thinks if he at least tries, the time they are apart might pass quicker.

However, as he curls up in the too-empty bed, he cannot get the word “iambic” out of his mind. At last, he sits up with a huff and locates his phone, reading up on the poetic form. After a while, with the words “stressed” and “unstressed” floating throughout his mind palace, he sighs, clicks on the bedside lamp, and digs out his notebook from his bag. He might as well do this now, because sleeping away from John sounds like an impossible order.

At the top of a blank page, he scribbles a title: “A Sonnet For Drunk John.”

* * *

Sherlock finishes the draft of the poem in about half an hour, stretches, and then reads it over. At the last line, he freezes.

“Love.”

He’s used the word “love.”

More than that, he has used it without thinking, as if it’s a word that is easy to take for granted. Yet he and John have never used it. He has never before considered this, but now the absence of the word in their lives feels visceral, painful.

He loves John, and he has never said so. If John loves him in return, he has never said so.

Why have they never said it?

A moment later, Sherlock slumps against the pillow and drags his fingers through his hair. He can practically hear John telling him to stop “mussing those gorgeous locks,” but he ignores the thought. Because what the hell is he thinking? He is Sherlock Holmes, and although he has promised to open up to John, he cannot pine and moan to himself about _ sentiment _ like this.

And yet.

He’s writing poems, fucking _ romantic _ poems, about and for this man.

He wants to say “love;” he wants to hear “love.”

But does John? That is the real concern. John, the more open one, the one more conscious of social issues, has not said it. Wouldn’t he say it, if he felt it?

Sherlock groans, flops to the side, and stretches out. He really should do something else, should go find a book or do an experiment or force himself to sleep or _ something_, and distract himself. However, he knows that he will get nothing done. He will unwillingly fixate on this until he goes mad.

“Dammit,” he growls. He knows, as is the burden of genius, what he should do, but he feels a jolt of nerves as he considers it. “John, what have you done to me?”

* * *

The next morning, after a few hours of fitful sleep and more hours of fitful tossing and turning, Sherlock scrolls through the contacts on his phone, seeking a number he’s taken from John.

Three rings, and then a voice on the other end of the call. “Hello?”

“Mr. Sholto? This is Sherlock Holmes.” He takes a quick, deep breath. “I was hoping you could do me a favour…”

* * *

As he nears the convention centre, Sherlock hoists his bag higher on his shoulder. He hasn’t had time to get a hotel room, planning to crash with John in his. Perhaps a bold decision, considered John has no idea he’s here, but oh well.

At the entrance, he pauses. Sholto has promised to meet him to give him his floor pass… so where is he?

Sherlock wonders about the man. He’d been so… subtly needling when Sherlock had met him a few months ago. Sherlock had supposed it to be from jealousy, so calling him this morning had been a risk. Now, he worries perhaps the man won’t show, and Sherlock will have to wait outside John’s hotel all afternoon. And after the nearly interminable train ride from London, he does not relish the thought. Especially since, as it had been a ticket purchased at the last minute, he’d been trapped behind a row of incessantly babbling children and felt exhausted simply from being in their proximity.

“Sherlock!”

He turns and sighs in relief. James Sholto, looking rather dashing in a smart but not too formal suit, approaches him from a side door. Sherlock smiles; as uncomfortable as their interaction might turn out to be, seeing Sholto means he is one step closer to seeing John.

“Hello, Mr. Sholto,” he greets, shaking his hand. “Thank you very much for helping me.”

Sholto gives him a slightly curt smile and hands over the small laminated card with the convention logo and the word “GUEST” in large letters. Sherlock clips it on his shirt, feeling a bit of a thrill as he does so.

“Not at all. Now, come on,” Sholto says, “I’ll show you to where John is, but I need to go participate in a panel soon.”

Sherlock hefts his bag and follows obediently, through the main entrance of the building and passing signs pointing toward the expo floor. Sherlock’s anticipation increases along with the volume of voices. John is in this building, and maybe when he sees him, Sherlock can get some answers.

“Sherlock.” Sholto pauses at the entrance, beyond which Sherlock can see various stands, signs, and queues of people organized throughout the massive open space. “I did want to speak to you about something.”

Sherlock meets his gaze, a twinge of dread coursing through him. “Yes?”

Sholto doesn’t fidget exactly, but Sherlock can see in the tension of his shoulders and the set of his mouth that this isn’t a conversation either one of them want to have.

“I wanted to apologize for my behaviour when we met. We got off on the wrong foot.”

Sherlock blinks. Somehow, he is caught off guard by this. “Oh.”

“John speaks highly of you all the time,” Sholto admits. “And he’s been happier since he met you.”

This makes Sherlock smile. “Has he?”

Sholto nods. “I misjudged you, I think. Or rather, judged you unfairly. I’m sorry.”

In his eyes, Sherlock detects not only sincerity, but also… concession. _ You win_, he seems to be saying. And so Sherlock inclines his head in acknowledgment.

Yet at the same moment, while Sholto gives him a much warmer smile now and points him down an aisle, Sherlock wonders.

Has he truly won John’s heart?

He leaves Sholto behind, the wonder and worry and, yes, fear, rising up within him again.

He’s used the word “love.”

John is just ahead of him, somewhere in this crowd.

John’s never used the word “love.”

“Oh! Excuse me.”

Sherlock’s collided with a man, sending them both stumbling as a result. Sherlock straightens up and catches the man’s gaze. Intense brown eyes look back.

“Pardon me,” Sherlock mumbles, intending to continue on. However, the man grasps his arm, touch light — but not entirely innocent, somehow.

“Not at all,” the man replies, a smirk on his face. “It was my fault entirely.”

It wasn’t, but Sherlock doesn’t say so. He has noticed the large sign behind a nearby table, bearing the likeness of the man before him. Recognition floods him. “You’re James—”

“Moriarty, yes.” The man nods. “Hi.”

Sherlock knows of him, but only vaguely. Apparently, he’s the author of a series of horror novels, and the head of a company called Rich Brook Publishing. Sherlock wouldn’t have had any idea who he was were it not for John.

“And who might you be?” Moriarty presses.

“A reader,” Sherlock says, evasive. For some reason, he doesn’t want to bring up John to this man. Something about him is setting off an instinctive red flag, yet Sherlock cannot deduce why, which is even more alarming.

“How flattering,” Moriarty grins. “Someone so handsome, a fan of mine.”

Sherlock swallows but doesn’t correct him. Moriarty still has not moved his hand off his arm. “Yes, well, I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m afraid I have somewhere to be…”

He pulls away and strides through a queue of people at another author’s signing before Moriarty can follow. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the edge of the room, then pauses. Why does he feel so shaken? Certainly, Moriarty had been uncomfortably familiar and eager to invade Sherlock’s personal space, but he hadn’t been outright threatening.

Still, something about him…

He shakes himself. He isn’t here because of a strange, slightly sinister horror writer. He’s here because he used the word “love” in an insipid poem; he’s here because he cannot abide the doubt that’s swept in during the past day; he’s here because of John.

In fact, an idea occurs to him then, and he plunges his hand into his pocket and calls John.

John answers quickly. “Hey, Sherlock.”

“Hi,” he says, relieved. “Can you talk right now?”

“Sure. I’m just in between events. Got my signing starting in a few minutes, but I snuck to the break room for a cup of tea.” John sounds pleased, and Sherlock feels his chest lighten at the sound of his voice. “You alright?”

Sherlock nods. He can see, now that the unsettling feeling Moriarty brought with him has faded, where John’s signing will be. The booth features a sign like Moriarty’s, but this time with John’s author photo and the cover of _ Murder in Marylebone_, both larger than life. So Sherlock moves forward, suppressing a smile.

“I’m fine. Do you think you’ll have many people at your signing?”

“Who knows?” John says casually, but Sherlock knows him well enough now to discern that he’s a bit nervous. “My signing’s at the same time as a few other events. Plus, there’s a couple of major authors speaking today, so…”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Sherlock says automatically. He finds it difficult to concentrate on the conversation, however, as he nears John’s table.

_ I used the word “love.” _

_ Do you love me, John? _

“Well, we’ll see.”

Sherlock shakes himself. Focus. “What time does your signing start?” He’s near the table, and nearby he can see a door with a sign that says “Authors, Agents & Publishers Only.” John must be right through there, and Sherlock feels a thrill.

“Oh, actually, in a couple minutes.” John sounds apologetic. “I’m sorry, I’d better go.”

Sherlock grins. “I’ll talk to you soon.” _ Sooner than you think_, he adds in his mind.

“Okay, bye, darling.” John hangs up.

Sherlock paces up and down the narrow aisle between booths. A dozen people have lined up before John’s place, and a young woman — obviously an employee of the convention centre — is adding a water bottle and a pen to the book-laden table.

And then — John emerges from the door and takes a seat. He waves at the fans, who give him a quick round of applause. Sherlock waits at the back of the line, patient only because of the reaction he hopes John will have.

_ John_, he thinks again rather wildly. _ Do you love me? _

The next minutes are a blur, his eyes fixed upon John as he smiles at fans, shakes hands, signs books, takes selfies. Sherlock’s heart pounds, and the lines of his sonnet for John echo through his mind.

“Hi, what’s your name?” John asks him at last, when Sherlock reaches the front of the line. The author hasn’t looked up at his face yet, focused on the copy of _ Marylebone _that Sherlock had the foresight to bring with him for this very purpose.

“It’s a tough one,” he replies. “I’ll have to spell it for you.”

John’s head whips up at the sound of his voice, astonishment written onto his handsome features. “Sherlock!” he exclaims, leaping to his feet. “What— what are you doing here?”

Sherlock grins, reaching out to grasp John’s hands. “Surprising you, obviously.” His anxiety retreats, and the confident tone comes easily, for once, in response to John’s enthusiasm.

“You sneaky, clever thing,” John says, shaking his head. He leans in and kisses him quickly on the lips. “Come on over here.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. He’s painfully aware of the scrutiny of the others around them. A few more people had joined the line after him, and he feels their gaze upon the pair of them like a physical weight. “Am I permitted back there?”

John shrugs. “Well, there’s a spare chair, and I certainly don’t want you anywhere else.”

Sherlock glances at the small crowd of onlookers, but is relieved to see only a couple impatient faces at the delay. The others smile at him, clearly delighted with this impromptu reunion, even if they don’t know him. So he smiles back, hoping his face isn’t too red, and then hurries around to John’s side of the table, recalling the last time this happened, at the book signing at Sidney's Pages, when John had first introduced him as his “boyfriend.”

What would it take, Sherlock wonders, for John to introduce him as the man he loves?

Once he’s seated, John sits too, still beaming. He addresses the remaining fans, “Sorry about the delay. I didn’t know my boyfriend would be surprising me here.”

The nearest fan waves it off, moving forward to have her book signed. Sherlock settles back into his chair, feeling only a bit less out of place than he had at the bookstore. Still, John’s joy at Sherlock being here is palpable and infectious. Sherlock’s mood lifts a bit over the next hour as John’s calming, grounding presence washes over him.

A fairly steady stream of people comes to see John, though Sherlock finds himself grateful for the quieter moments, which is when John turns to him and murmurs things like, “I missed you,” or “I can’t believe you’re here,” or “thanks for surprising me.”

And despite the doubts that have propelled Sherlock here, he smiles.

* * *

John, giggling, tugs Sherlock by the hand into the hotel room that night. Sherlock can hardly believe how his mood has improved — from such anxiety the night before, to a near-constant nervousness today, to this strange contentment. He hopes it will last.

After John’s signing ended, he sat on a panel with a few other mystery writers. Sherlock didn’t have a ticket, but John snuck him in. So Sherlock got to spend ninety minutes watching John discussing writing, answering questions, and generally being handsome. Not that Sherlock is biased.

Now, against the just-closed door of the hotel room, Sherlock lets John press kisses to his mouth, face, neck. He grins, wraps his arms around John, and tilts his head back.

“John,” he sighs, “I missed you.”

John chuckles, which Sherlock feels more than hears. He shivers. “What?”

“Nothing,” John looks up with a smile that makes Sherlock want to melt into his embrace and never leave. “I just don’t know that you’d have admitted that a few months ago.”

Sherlock certainly doesn’t blush. “Well…”

“It’s okay, you know,” John continues, lips brushing against Sherlock’s collarbone. “You don’t have to be cool and arrogant and aloof with me.”

“I know.” His tone comes off rather haughty, but also breathy under John’s attention.

John chuckles again and pulls back. He bends down and picks up Sherlock’s bag, then tugs him further into the room. “Come on, make yourself at home.”

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed. John deposits the bag on the floor and joins him, still with that oh-so-pleased look on his face that hasn’t faded since he first saw Sherlock at the signing. Sherlock takes a moment to glance around the space — it’s a lovely hotel room, all greens and golds, with wide windows and a fully stocked minibar. Out of the windows the city sprawls, the castle glowing golden-orange at the top of the hill. It feels distant, though, as if Sherlock and John are somehow above it all, wrapped up in their own small universe, intimate and alone.

“It’s kind of absurd, you know,” John says, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to him with a gentle kiss to his fingers. “I know this event is only a couple days, but I still missed you.” He ducks his head, but Sherlock tilts it up again.

“We do practically live together,” he points out, even as his mind unhelpfully wonders, yet again, if John is fully committed, if John loves him.

“True.” John kisses him once more, then stretches out on the bed. “So, what shall we do tonight? We can order room service, or go out. There’s probably a bunch of authors at the hotel bar. You can meet some of my competition.”

Sherlock snorts. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Well, your type is clearly brilliant, gorgeous writers. You could make sure you’ve got the choicest pick.”

“I already know I do,” Sherlock says, without thinking. Then, he winces. What sort of insipid, sentimental drivel was that? However, if he’s honest, he doesn’t really mind.

John grins. “You sure?” he asks teasingly.

Sherlock nods. “I am. Besides, considering what I’ve seen of the ‘competition,’ as you say, I want no part of any of them.”

“Oh?” John’s eyebrows raise, and he sits up. “What do you mean?”

“I met James Moriarty today.” Sherlock describes their brief, odd, discomfiting interaction. The more he speaks, the more concerned John looks.

“I’m sorry he made you uncomfortable,” he says when Sherlock finishes. “I’ve never interacted with him much, but what I know of him…” He trails off with a grimace.

“What?” Sherlock presses. He remembers how immune to deduction Moriarty had been; he craves any insight John can give him.

“I feel a bit weird spreading rumors,” John says.

Sherlock sighs. “Who would I tell, John?”

John shifts, then nods. “Yeah, alright. It’s just that he — I mean, his company — has a bad reputation. They’re a vanity press, so most people I know steer clear.”

“That’s when a publisher charges an author money to be published?”

John purses his lips. “Yeah. I think Moriarty does provide some editing, but… I don’t know. I’ve got a strange feeling from what people say about them. And if that weren’t enough, he also tried to chat you up. So it’s no wonder I don’t like him, yeah?”

Sherlock, smiling, nods. “I would. But don’t worry about him trying anything with me. He’s clearly as in love with himself and his own ‘talent’ as some people would say Sacker and Sherrinford are in love with each other. And as for me, I’d never in a millennium write poetry for _ him_.”

John laughs. “Good.” Then, his eyes light up. “Oh, talking of that, did you finish that sonnet?”

Sherlock’s face warms. “I did, but… I hoped you’d forget you asked me to write it.”

“Oh, come on,” John leans in and pecks his cheek. “How could I forget urging you to expand your poetic horizons?”

Sherlock snorts. “I don’t know how much they’ve broadened. I don’t think it’s any good.”

“Do you have it with you?”

He swallows. “Yes.”

John expressions shifts to something soft, not demanding at all. “Would you like for me to see it?”

The implication that Sherlock is free to refuse is evident in every syllable, and Sherlock finds himself smiling. If he can’t show it to John, who?

“I would,” he murmurs, and moves to retrieve his notebook from his bag. Digging it out, finding the right page, and handing it to John is less graceful than he’d have hoped, but John is kind enough not to comment. He only slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist and reads the poem silently. Sherlock resists the urge to fidget.

> _ You tell me all about these diff’rent forms, _  
_ the merits of free verse and prosody. _  
_ You really are quite charming when you let _ _  
yourself just babble on about these things._
> 
> _ Good heavens, John, why did you make me try _  
_ this odd and frankly irritating mess? _  
_ You’ll notice that I didn’t choose to rhyme, _ _  
for that will have to be another day._
> 
> _ That is, if I am here when morning comes _  
_ and haven’t run off screaming far away _  
_ where poets do not have to count like this _ _  
And be at peace with words again — it’s bliss._
> 
> _ Oh god, you really made me rhyme right there. _ _  
_ _ The things I do for you, my love, I swear. _

When John reaches the end, he doesn’t say anything for a moment. Sherlock, abruptly unable to bear the silence, starts babbling.

“I know it’s stupid and amateur, but I’m not used to form poetry, even the sort that doesn’t rhyme. As for that, I didn’t feel able to do all this syllable nonsense _ and _make it rhyme. And… and about that last line, I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, I suppose I wasn’t thinking at all, but the point is, don’t take too much meaning from that…” He trails off and clears his throat self-consciously. He shouldn’t have shown John the poem; what a foolish decision.

“What do you mean…?” John starts to ask. An endearing wrinkle appears in the center of his forehead, and Sherlock watches him read the end again.

“Oh,” John says, and realization blooms on his face. He rests his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. “You’re going to laugh at me.”

“Am I?” Sherlock replies. His hands lift of their own volition; even with this nervousness fluttering through him, he cannot fight the urge to hold John. 

John nods. “It’s ridiculous, but… it never occurred to me that we haven’t said... _ that _yet.”

Sherlock’s mind freezes as one word echoes in his mind on a loop, one word that he can’t help but echo. “Yet?”

John looks up and tucks a strand of hair behind Sherlock’s ear. “Yeah, yet. I’m working up to saying it in a minute — you know, spoiler alert.”

Sherlock’s laugh is more an exhalation than anything else, but it makes John grin as he continues. “It’s just… Well, I feel stupid that I’m only now realizing this, but. I’ve kind of been thinking of you in that way for a while now.”

“Thinking of me in what way?” Sherlock asks. He knows what John is going to say — of course he does; he’s not an _ idiot _— but he finds the idea of hearing it spoken aloud rather compelling.

John’s voice is soft. “As my love.”

Oh.

So, compelling is certainly not the right word. World-tilting is, perhaps, closer to the mark.

He clutches John, who holds him with a caress that manages somehow to feel both gentle and strong in the same instant. And Sherlock Holmes, emotionally inept scientist, finds himself trembling as one of the most sentimental sentences of all spills off his lips.

“I love you.”

John lets out a quiet sound, some marvelously unusual combination of a whimper, a gasp, and a laugh, and his eyes glisten. He slides his hand from the side of Sherlock’s face to the back of his neck, pulling him down so their foreheads touch. Something Sherlock might dare to call delight dances across his countenance. They both close their eyes, sit there, and breathe.

Sherlock feels he has divested a weight from his chest and only now can experience what living, breathing, existing is. The words are out, and he cannot take them back, and he is so alive.

“Sherlock,” John half-sighs, half-kisses into his skin as he shifts his head to graze his mouth across Sherlock’s jaw. “I love you.”

Sherlock grips him tighter, and John grips back. They sit there locked together for ages, the sounds of car horns and distant sirens and tipsy shouts drifting into the room from the streets below. These nighttime sounds envelop them, and wonder strikes Sherlock.

_ Who needs sonnets_, he thinks, _ when John just said he loves me? That in itself is a poem_.

Finally, after darkness has taken over the room entirely, John leans back. “Come to bed,” he murmurs from inches away and yet still in such a quiet voice that Sherlock nearly misses the words.

He nods his assent. John retreats then and finds the nearest lamp. He smiles at Sherlock in the golden light, though both of them blink a bit at the sudden brightness. Sherlock retreats into the adjoining toilet to brush his teeth and stare at himself, incredulous, in the mirror.

He doesn’t look different — still long-faced and sharp-angled and pale-skinned. Why doesn’t he look different? John loves him; he should be _ shining_, _ dazzling_. Hell, he should be _ floating_.

Turning away, he hesitates to change clothes; John likes this particular outfit. A smirk takes up residence on his lips as he opens the door and strides back into the main room, still wearing his deep aubergine shirt and black trousers. His smirk widens at the appreciative glint he sees in John’s eyes as his boyfriend passes him to take his turn in the loo. 

Sherlock pulls the curtains closed and moves to the side table, where he plugs his phone in. This mundane task seems special: after all, this is the first time he has charged his phone since John said he loves him.

A second later, he grimaces. Honestly. What mawkish nonsense. _ Compose yourself, Sherlock_, he scolds.

Of course, any composure Sherlock manages to muster in the next thirty seconds promptly vacates the premises when John reenters the room. The writer has changed out of his clothes into the deep blue flannel pyjamas bottoms that Sherlock especially likes — they hug John’s curves in a pleasing way. And the fact that he is shirtless helps, too.

“Come here, you,” John says, beckoning as he crosses the room and pulls back the bed covers with a theatrical flourish that makes Sherlock laugh. Sherlock goes, sliding into the bed and nuzzling close. He can smell John’s spearmint toothpaste, as well as the lavender soap the hotel provided, which clings to them both lightly. Underneath both scents, though, is something sharper and more intriguing: John himself. 

“Okay, okay, let me get the light, you darling, ridiculous octopus,” John laughs as he struggles to roll over.

Sherlock groans. “Bossy.” He lets go, though, and John switches off the light, plunging them into warm darkness.

They are silent for a moment, as they shift and maneuver and adjust pillows and limbs and sheets. Once they settle, however, John speaks. 

“Is this why you really came to see me?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks. The darkness lends an intimacy to this conversation, but it doesn’t do wonders for his ability to deduce. John is the faintest outline in the residual light seeping through the drawn curtains.

“I mean, did you surprise me here because you were, I don’t know, anxious about… my commitment?” John sounds as if he is trying to be nonchalant, but Sherlock detects a trace of worry in the question.

So Sherlock finds his hand and squeezes it before placing it on his own hip. John takes the hint, sliding his arm across Sherlock’s back and bringing them closer together. “Not precisely,” Sherlock says. “But it did occur to me that it’s customary in most relationships to have… said those words by now.”

John’s nose bumps against his collarbone. “I’m sorry if that worried you. It hadn’t occurred to me you might benefit from hearing it said aloud. I thought — well, when I thought about it at all — that showing you how I feel would be enough.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No need to apologize. The thought hadn’t occurred to me either, until… well.”

“Until you wrote the sonnet?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s focus on this conversation slips a bit when John tangles their legs together, but he wrestles it back. “Stupid concept, that. Who speaks like that, with all that stressed and unstressed nonsense?”

John’s chuckle reverberates through Sherlock’s ribcage. “Shakespeare, for one.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock says. He pulls John closer and finds his mouth at last. John lets out a pleased sigh and kisses back. 

“He is not irrelevant,” he protests when they come up for air a minute later.

“He is right now,” Sherlock insists. “I don’t love _ him_.”

John’s voice drips with joyful teasing as he speaks into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “But you love me.”

“Yes.”

And later — when all thoughts of Shakespeare and sonnets and rhyming and syllables have retreated as far from their minds as possible — when they have pressed together as close as two people can be — when their fingers have interlocked and their breaths have started to come faster — they speak those words again. Three words, pressed into skin and hair and lips, over and over and over. 

And later than that — when Sherlock can’t even remember his own name as he clutches at John — when his heart is pounding as if he’s been running — the words trip out of his mouth again, in a hoarse gasp this time. 

And even later after that — when their heart rates are calmer and the call to sleep stronger — John repeats the words into Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock tries to roll his eyes at the sentiment of the evening, but only ends up closing them as sleep takes over.

**Author's Note:**

> Time for noooooooooooootes!  
1\. I feel I should have mentioned this before, but I’m American, so some of the notes I’m giving might not be entirely accurate per how it works in the UK. I don’t know how different the publishing industry is there. I’m not even an expert concerning how publishing works in the US, so please take my notes in this, previous, and future fics with a grain of salt.  
2\. Isabell, AKA Bell, John’s new protagonist, is named in reference to Dr. Joseph Bell, the real-life inspiration for Sherlock Holmes.  
3\. The unnamed convention John attends is similar to the ones I know of, namely the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) conference, Book Expo America (BEA), and especially the Edinburgh International Book Festival. These are sort of like comic cons, but also like networking and marketing opportunities, though there are chances to meet authors and go to panels and such.  
4\. Vanity presses, the term John attaches to Moriarty’s company, charge for publication. This contributes to the reputation they have that they don’t have any standards in terms of quality of work, and only look at what the writer will pay them. They also tend to have pretty restrictive contracts and in worse cases even prevent the writer from owning rights to their own work. That said, Rich Brook Publishing is not based on a real life company, and I do not intend to criticize any particular company’s practices. I am just presenting generally what has been said in the industry about this business model.
> 
> Also... I'm unsure about the rating. Do you think it's more M territory than T?


End file.
